


happiness is a butterfly

by OizysAnneith



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anorexia, Anxiety, BPD, Bipolar Disorder, Bulimia, Cutting, Dark, Depressed Peter Parker, Depression, Eating Disorders, Gen, Mania, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:00:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29078997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OizysAnneith/pseuds/OizysAnneith
Summary: The ache of his ribs fills him with dull euphoria. He can feel it. This is his doing.(at some point, the lines between rigorous control and despairing chaos intersect)He sees their looks, of course he does. But there is a sick sense of satisfaction in being seen even as you feel yourself disappear.Marvel oneshots mostly about eating disorders but generally involving mental illness. Can be viewed as in the same universe unless i clarify i think?
Relationships: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	1. Peter Parker

**Author's Note:**

> i’m essentially shoving my baggage onto these characters and this is a coping thing- this one-shot focuses on Peter dealing with an eating disorder as a result of PTSD.

TW // anorexia, self harm, suicide attempt mentions, PTSD symptoms 

—

It hadn't been quick, and it hadn’t been slow.  
It had just happened.  
If he had to guess, it had been a gradual descent. With skipping lunch to save money, and skipping breakfast for convenience.  
He’s never really had time to eat in the morning. Too much work to do. 

And, rationally, it eases the pressure on May. She can barely keep up with his super-hero metabolism. He’s doing her a favour.

(right?) 

But, well, maybe this was doomed to happen. Even as a child, Peter remembers the panic. Of May or Ben convincing him to finish his plate, the distinct feeling of being out of control. The fear of being weighted down. Maybe he was born with this. He can't remember a time without it, not really. 

In the past any space he's taken up has felt obtrusive, in some way. Ben and May didn't have to take him in. And at any moment they could throw him away. If he stayed small, stayed out of the way, maybe he could stay.

(And he knows how childhood can shape the mind)

He knows there's something wrong, he knows it's not normal to feel such manic and euphoric fucking energy everytime someone comments on his thinness, or asks him to eat because "you're worrying me. Pete." 

He knows it's wrong to have to choke back a smile. Then again, he's sure that developing powers after being bitten by a radioactive spider would constitute as wrong. Or rather not right. So maybe morality isn’t something the universe gives a shit about. 

It stops being a passive thing, at some point, and suddenly he’s timing his fasts and noting down his weight like a fervent disciple. It hurts, the hunger. It’s why he’s failed, binging on anything he can grab to get it to go away. And then sticking his fingers down his oesophagus- hoping to get it back out in panic. 

Maybe it’s the deluded voice in his brain, but sometimes he can swear the hunger feels better than any drug on earth. Maybe he does this for the hunger, the hurt, too.

—

Guilt. It's the only thing that's never truly left his side. Even in recovery. In fact, it's usually the thing that claws him- bloody and desperate- into relapse. How dare he deserve to feel right when nothing ever has been, and will never be. 

Not that he would call any period of his life recovery.  
(Recovery, what does that even mean)

They say the first step is wanting to recover. He’s never reached that step. Not really. Not in more than words hastily croaked out as the noise of the IV machine provides an accusatory background tone- trying to convince Tony, or whatever nurse happens to hear him, that yes this was a mistake and yes he swears to do everything he can to ‘get his life back’. 

(The nausea, the anger that comes with that statement almost isn’t worth it. ‘i want to get my life back’. This is all he’s ever known. He couldn’t change if he wanted to. And he doesn’t want to)

Later, he wraps his fingers around the bird-fragile bones of his wrist and thinks it's fitting. At least the manacles on his wrists are his own.

—

After the first few times Peter awoke in a SHEILD hospital bed, something changed. 

At first, he couldn’t tell if it was seeing May, sobbing into the arms of his mentor, that made his heart ache. Or if it was his body feasting on his organs. Either way, there was a tube through his nose and a sick sense of understanding in everyone’s eyes. He knows May didn’t want him to leave, but that realistically, he’s too much of a burden, that having the opportunity to live in Stark tower and not a psychiatric unit is a privilege, but it hurt. And he fought his soul out to convince them to let him go. That he was fine. With feigned calm reasoning, to barely constrained rage.

(their pitying gazes really, really weren’t worth it)

Sometimes, now, he doesn't fight when they tube feed him. Maybe there’s a problem. Maybe he should work on staying just above the possibility of death. 

When they do it, when they shove plastic up his nose, Steve and Natasha reassure him unendingly whilst they pin his arms and legs to the treatment room bed. 

He almost feels bad for them. Realistically, at this point, he's certain a normal doctor, even Bruce, could restrain him. It's not like he has much muscle anymore anyway. He can hardly call himself an avenger. He's pathetic. But the time he broke a SHEILD nurse’s arm is fresh in everyone’s mind. So they’re being cautious.  
(he doesn’t feel bad for that. he should, and maybe there is an element of guilt somewhere- precisely because he doesn’t feel bad)

Their condescending tones don’t really help, though.

Natasha’s especially. Peter hasn’t killed all of his braincells off yet, he’s not sure she has a bone of sincerity in her body. A part of him can’t help but respect that. That doesn’t stop the praise from feeling bitter in his throat. He’s angry. He’s so angry.

And anyway, there is no way the super spy is comfortable in dealing with Peter instead of a terrorist plot. He’s embarrassed. And he should be. 

Steve is, in contrast, a sincerely kind person. 

(a part of Peter wonders if he’s always thought in black and white like this-)

But that doesn’t stop him from being a hypocrite, and it doesn’t stop him from being self aware. Sometimes Peter can feel the bitterness of the air around him, can taste the bile in the short distance between Steve’s calloused fingers and his own skin. Can feel the avoidant gaze and the subtle shivers of anxiety beneath Captain America’s skin.  
He doesn’t comment on it. But there is an understanding between them. Peter will let him continue to fool the rest of them. 

(he can count the amount of times they’ve had to force feed him, after all. there is something so, horrendously, sad about the whole ordeal that it stops it from being continuous. peter isn’t the only one ravaged with guilt)

—

They probably think he’s punishing himself, in some way. Maybe if they spoke to him when he was first measuring himself with meticulous precision and old tape measures- they would be right. But he isn’t sure what this is anymore.

So, he repents in other ways.

The scars littered throughout his body can attest to that, so can his liver, actually. 

The overdoses are never suicide attempts. Not really. Sometimes, everything is so still. So passive and okay that something must, must be about to go wrong. And then, it doesn’t. So he has to make something go wrong, he can’t function in any other environment. He can’t. 

(he lets them think that they’re some sort of suicide endeavour. it’s easier than explaining the darkness and the foreboding that clings to him with every breath. maybe he should explain. but not now)

He's only really come close to death twice. And even his ruined introspection can admit that he was truly, utterly trying to wipe himself off the face of the earth. Commit suicide. However they would like to put it. 

First, it was a bridge. 

(he’s lucky he isn't paralysed. he should be, and if it weren't for Tony Stark and that fateful radioactive spider- he would no doubt be dead)

There are matching scars down the arteries of his arms. He has Happy to thank for foiling that one. Funny, how someone can go from ignoring you, to suddenly noticing. To suddenly caring. 

(well, at least the last thing he ever saw didn't end up being his blood-stained bathroom, he remembers the intense longing, some echo of regret, that enveloped him as he died. he wanted to fall, to swing between the skyscrapers of his city at least one more time. maybe he really does have Happy to thank for something, not that he would ever admit it)

He remembers planning to try it for the third time. But there's only so much you can work with when you're constantly checked on and the most dangerous object you have access to is the wall. The noose he made out of his sheets left him supervised almost constantly, and by the time he worked up the energy to hack Friday’s protocols- he quickly discovered that Tony had apparently added many layers of security. 

There’s an element of indecency, even rage, at having an AI film your every moment in the bathroom. And it’s at this moment he really realises his stupidity, because now he’s given them an excuse to determine how often he’s purging, too. To stop him. 

They are prying into the most intimate manifestations of his emotions, he can’t even add to the ladder of scars trailing across his body without Bruce immediately reviewing the footage. It doesn’t stop him, not really, but it’s a damper on what used to be his. And he hates them for that. 

Being reduced to someone that can’t even be around knives is less than pleasant. Ripping open a diet coke can and using it as a substitute to a razor really wasn’t his greatest moment, either.

It feels hopeless, impossible. He doesn't know why they bother. He just wants to be a fucking skeleton. He wants to not feel guilty for once and just be satisfied in his body. He wants his mind, the voice in his head, to just shut up. Its getting worse, maybe it’s the natural course of things.

Tony and him are locked in a bizarre kind of dance. Its not spoken about until it is and Peter isn't force fed or on suicide watch until he has to be. 

They do a good job of pretending, sometimes. Sometimes it’s okay, and Peter will join his mentor in his workshop and they’ll go for hours. There will be AC/DC playing in the background and there is an ease that Peter doesn’t really feel anywhere else, they can laugh or joke and there won’t be so much tension. 

The cautious eyes of Tony don’t escape his notice, though. Neither does the way he counts every tool at the end of their work, when he didn’t used to before. 

Peter’s own eyes doesn’t dismiss the unfocused gaze of his mentor when he is stood too still for slightly too long. He notices how Tony does not sit down, the strain of his muscles under his skin. If he didn’t know better, maybe he would think nothing of it. But he knows better.

He knows he is hurting Tony, triggering him, even. Tony is someone clearly balancing at the beginnings of relapse, of what exactly- he isn’t quite sure. A part of Peter- a horrific, disgusting part- drenched in guilt, is threatened by it. If Tony will not eat, then neither will Peter. The rest of him is terrified, and there is a small section of his mind revelling in the absurdity of it all. 

—

Self-disgust is self-obsession, and Peter hates himself so much he can't stop thinking about it. Hates his body so much he can’t stop staring at his reflection in car windows, plastic mirrors, the shine of puddles. 

Peter pretends, sometimes, that Happy coming to pick him up from school is a luxury and not something that prevents him from wandering somewhere or burning calories or hurting himself. They haven’t said that exactly, but he knows. 

They justify it by saying he can't be trusted. Not so plainly, but in kindly, false, sentences. He hasn’t even attempted to kill himself for almost 4 months now. He doesn’t want that. He’s not sure what he wants. But they’re adamant, with their buttered up words, that they just don’t want things to get ‘dangerous’ again. He’s supposed to be a superhero, for Christ’s sake. He can handle being thin. 

(and he fucking hates butter, anyway)

It’s not the same, his situation. He’s not an anorexic girl, he’s fine. He can take care of himself. If he wants to go for a walk, he will go for a walk. And really, there’s not much they can do about it.

He can’t, he can’t relinquish control like that. 

There is a hypocrisy that has seasoned every meal the avengers have ever put in front of him. 

Peter has seen the scars on Bruce's arms.  
Tony is far too thin for it to be healthy, unintentional. He’s been disappearing, absent somehow, even when you’re right next to him and within the same room. He wants to help, but he can’t.  
He doesn't look back fondly on Clint's month long mania, and he has noticed the way Steve looks at food- heard the noises from the bathroom when him and Bucky disappear. They're all hypocrites. The best kind, he supposes, because they understand. But hypocrites all the same.  
Even Natasha- he's sure she can't keep being the only stability. The only one actively not teetering on the edge of disaster. It's a weight that would crush even captain america, is crushing captain america, though Peter, and Bucky, are the only ones that can see it. 

Peter is not angry at them. There is a finality in this that consumes him. He will never get better, he will never be right. And he is certain they all know it.

He's not even sure he wants to be. Who is he kidding? He is overflowing with selfishness and self-hatred, it fuels him. He does this because he hates himself. He will never stop, because he loves it. The feeling of his collarbones, the lightness, the disaster. 

He's going to die, and he hopes that he does, maybe then, he would finally be small enough, good enough. A final testament to his control. He's done with his life. He is basking in self destruction and he hates it. He has fallen in love. What’s the difference between hate and love anyway? Anorexia is the ultimate inducer of stockholm syndrome. 

He is doomed to spend his life, however short, counting his ribs and sobbing over calories. He deserves it. In every way imaginable, right? Or, maybe he could start trying to be what he once was. Someone, not quite so full of hate.

Maybe he could work for a clearer mind, maybe he could stop seeing this as some grand game of chess and see it for what it is. Maybe they’re all on the same side, maybe the avengers are trying to help him. Maybe.


	2. Bruce Banner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this chapter doesn’t really deal with ed stuff! it’s about Bruce struggling with a self harm addiction. honestly i just write this to cope it’s not going to be the most developed thing i’ve ever written i’m ngl

TW // self harm, rather visceral terminology, not any very explicit descriptions of the actual process, though.

—

There is an itch set deep in his soul.

Sometimes,

( _often, always_ )

He can't help but scratch it.

The first time he dabbled in this particular coping strategy had been far before he had even heard of the avengers. A child, pressing on the wounds his father had so meticulously placed upon him in the dark of his cupboard. The bruises gave off waves of dull pain, and finally he had something to numb the tears burning in the back of his eyes.

When Bruce no doubt began taking a blade to his skin, he cried at the relief it brought. The bruises never left his body, and the stolen stash of his father's liquor was enough to stop him unravelling for a long time. But in university? Bruce knew he wouldn't survive without something stronger. The rough nights of loveless sex were enough in the beginning. But it didn't last.

And so he bought packs upon packs of razors and did what he had to. It had been a logical step, to deepen the scrapes on his hands and arms.

He never had that feeling of relief again. That feeling he had the first time he cut himself open. Not before the Hulk had given him opportunities to go.. further, anyway. Although he painstakingly tried to replicate it.

And so the scars got deeper and deeper and more and more frequent. The relief was enough to keep him going, though. Even if it faded after every time.

Bruce didn't feel guilt or secret shame. Perhaps he would have, if his own pain hadn't been such a familiar company for his entire life.

(and after awhile, familiarity becomes comforting. no matter _what_ it may be)

Sometimes, though, bruce stops and stares into the eyes of the person in the mirror. The feeling in the back of his ribcage might be regret. But then it's gone, and he has no choice but to continue along the path he's carved out for himself.

(or lay in his bed and cry _and cry and cry_ -)

He can't change this now. And he can't afford to feel regret. He was fine with this. _He is fine with this-_

But, that doesn't mean he could, or would, walk around that old campus with short sleeves and exposed secrecy. The stained red of the bandages almost constantly adorning his arms would not be met with compliance and averted gazes, not like the suspicious blood-red stains on his knuckles or the lines on his hands, and he knows that.

Soon, it becomes a habit to avoid pain and stress rather than to induce relief. He cant go more than a day without such _intense_ longing to tear open his skin. He's tearing through veins and teetering on the edge of a medical disaster.

He doesn't feel anything except certainty. This is the natural course of things. It feels as though he's always known this was going to happen- and then, it does. As he's sat in the bathroom opposite his lecture hall and digging a box cutter into his forearm.

He nicks an artery.

And then, he does feel something. It's panic.

He knows anatomy. He knows it very well, but as a 20 year old university student he does not have medical experience beyond patching up vein breakage and he knows immediately that this slightly more serious and slightly more out of his control.

He's fumbling for his phone, trying to ignore the thump of his heart that he knows is fear but feels like euphoria. He doesn't want to die. Not now. Not in one of the buildings of his _stupid_ university with his classmates two walls over. Not when he hasn't even drafted a letter for his roommate and for his very small, rather pathetic group of study friends. Not now, _not now_.

He calls 911. He's asking for an ambulance that he can't afford with slurred words but it's too late for regret and he does not have time to think.

When the ambulance crew arrive, Bruce is passed out with his coat wrapped around the offending injury.

It costs him a disturbing amount in medical expenses, but the relief was so _close_ to the first time and doctors are confidential, anyway.

Well. The psychiatrist- a woman with bright yellow glasses that are rather irrationally annoying, and a voice so falsely kind it hurts- recognises this was not a suicide attempt, at least. He finds it shockingly easy to manipulate her. He's an intelligent guy, under a bit of stress, and we all just cope how we can, right?

He's halfway there with that, but it’s not a very genuine explanation, and she knows it. Tearing your limbs to pieces isn't exactly a viable coping strategy. But she lets him go, reluctantly.

There are conditions for him to go to therapy, and to let the dean of his university college know. Bruce doesn't plan to adhere to that. And he never does. 

It's unfortunate that an ambulance crew storming into a building isn't totally discrete. Or quiet either, though. No one talks to him about it, but he knows that rumours spread like wildfire- and he's sure there were more than a few people that saw him get carted out of the building that day.

It didn't scare him, being so close to bleeding out, _it excited him_.

The overwhelming catharsis was so _intensely_ addictive. It didn't take much to rationalise the development of this habit to that extent. Not when it has that effect. Its painful and grotesque but it's his and it _helps_.

When Bruce awakened that _thing_ inside of him. As a functioning and educated scientist, he should have _done better_. And so he didn't hesitate to put a gun to his head and a bullet through his skull. Despite the awful consequences, and the Hulk's rampage, it wasn't the last time he tried. He just had to travel out far enough to try it. He was on the run, anyway. He had time. Unfortunately.

These constant attempts on his life, by himself and others, quickly led him to discover he could endure _intense_ harm to himself.

Though, he didn't have time to appreciate it. Not properly. He barely had time to think or appreciate anything at all. The absolute gashes he could carve into himself curbed the fear that now plagued him constantly, but he had bigger things to worry about, to focus on. Like finding a way to kill himself, and doing his utmost to not awaken the Hulk and reveal his location, and most importantly, not be the cause of more innocent deaths.

When Natasha Romanoff arrived to 'convince' Bruce to accompany her, he is ashamed to say that his first thought was of himself, his habits, and not the people he would be leaving behind without care.

It really didn't take long for the avengers themselves to discover his rather unconventional coping strategies. SHEILD already knew, of _course_ they did. It's on his medical records. They knew this wasn't a development that came with the Hulk, but of course, were too afraid, and didn't _care_ enough, to try and prevent it. He can't die anyway!

(and he’s sure they would much, much prefer it if he could)

It keeps him functioning. And when Bruce told Fury this, convincingly trying to rationalise it, he got a _slightly_ perplexed nod, and nothing more.

Fine by him.

The avengers were.. _slightly_ more visceral.

It was on that awful ship with that awful sceptre and Bruce just said it. Like the _worst_ kind of idiot. He tells them of his first suicide attempt. Spits it out with bitterness and rage coating his tongue. And he's _this_ close to graphically explaining the gashes on his arms.

But Fury, although he may never admit it, (in fact. Bruce is certain he never would)

He can _see_ what's coming. And he tries, and he is successful, in stopping Bruce from blurting out some terrible horrible and _embarrassing_ things.

But it doesn't matter. After being triggered into the Hulk, a terrified Tony and a stoic-as-always Natasha were able to calm him down, eventually, and as Tony watched Bruce's naked form lay shattered on the ground he couldn't help but be somewhat repulsed.

Purple scars covered his thighs, stomach and arms. Deep lines both across and down the arteries of his wrists. Tony was beyond taken aback, and the shock of what Bruce had been doing to himself made him heave- though he hadn't eaten anything in a long time, and there was no bile to escape his stomach.

It was like a punch to the gut, especially due to his own self destructive nature. It resonated with him in an awful way.

Natasha didn't seem that surprised.

Tony remembers Bruce's pleas. The day after, when Steve found out.

"Don't you _dare_ try and take this away from me, Steve. It keeps me sane. It keeps me alive, or used to, when i was still able to _choose to fucking kill myself_. Let me have this. No, _no_. Regardless, there's nothing you can do about it. I don't need your fucking permission"

"Bruce, i- you're _hurting_ yourself. What if you try to kill yourself again? If being on the avengers is stressing you out- look. You clearly aren't very stable-"

"The _fuck_ i'm not stable, Steve, look at yourself. You think i don't notice the trips to the bathroom? Leave me the fuck alone and don't get involved"

_How don't they understand?_ He's fine. He can deal with this on his own.

Recovery was, of course, an idea he entertained for a short time. He's a doctor, and whilst he's also a monster, perhaps he should set an example. He let them convince him. A few months after the avenger's discovery, he was tired of the pitying glances from Steve, the way Clint would grab his arms and stare at his wounds every morning as if it could make them go away. As if the wounds on Clint's own body don't exist. He was _exhausted._ And so he tried his best to remain clean.

(He will never let his guard down like that again)

That month had been the longest of his life. He had cried and panicked more than a dozen times. It could barely be considered a period of being clean- the bruises on his legs bearing witness. He grew so desperate he almost drowned himself just to feel the burn of his lungs. Starved himself for days as some bizarre substitute punishment. He even went to therapy, twice a week, and the condescending tone of the psychologist almost brought out the Hulk more than a few times. Things like that wouldn't usually bother him to the point of obvious outward hatred, to warrant the hulk- but his starved, emotional, terrified mind wasn't very good at rationalising.

By the end of it, Bruce carved out his vows never to do that to himself again. In symmetrical lines down his arteries. A full circle kind of thing, right?

(he spent the next week in isolation. The hulk wasn't happy at his near-suicide. bruce though? He was in a period of _absolute_ euphoria. finally)

The lines between repentance and self indulgence blur. And whilst it might not matter to _them_ it matters more than anything to _him_. Even in death, his father's punishments thrive through him. Is this habit born of self hatred or self indulgence?

_(Of course he knows it's both. A baby is not conceived with only one party. And this child is a kicking and screaming toddler. It's better to give in)_

They ask him why. And when it comes down to it. He knows he wants to destroy himself. In the worst possible way imaginable. He wants to tear out his veins and snap his collarbones, he wants to hurt. There is unimaginable pleasure in self destruction, and Bruce is more than aware. It helps. He can focus, he can just _be_. Its whats kept him alive in the past.

( _albeit, it's whats almost killed him)_

Now, he goes too far- and his sickly green counterpart intervenes. But really, thanks to him, now there _is no too far._ And he can finally appreciate that.

He could carve his wrists to pieces and it would just be another Tuesday night. In another life, this would've killed him. In all his lives, he would have wanted it to.

_(he knows suicide isn't an option. the Hulk won't let him die. he both hates him and is undyingly grateful for it)_

The utter _satisfaction_ that comes with the feel of metal on his horrendous skin, the pain, the _focus_ it brings. At least he has this to comfort him. He can warm himself in his own blood.

He thinks Tony may understand. Knows it, actually. Self destruction comes in more forms then slicing yourself up like a teenage girl. And Tony is an expert in self destruction.

The others, though. At the start. After the disaster of his attempt at recovery, they realised he couldn't stop on his own, that he didn't want to-

They tried to _force it on him_. Checking his arms, his legs- removing sharp objects. As if that was going to stop him. Clint had been doing half of that, perhaps out of morbid curiosity, or perhaps because of something else, for weeks. But when Steve got SHEILD-trained medics to do it for them? Well.

Bruce left after a week. There is a difference in choosing to control yourself and having others try and do it for you. And he could barely even do the former.

He rationalised that it was for their own safety, if he doesn't have this control, the Hulk could appear at any moment. He doesn't want to hurt them.

_(He's an awful liar)_

How _dare_ they take this from him. As if they have any right to. He doesn't want to hurt them, but it's not _about_ them. It's about him.

The first thing Bruce did, after wandering in an awful half-psychosis, half-dissociated state for hours, was pick up the glass off the floor of a public bathroom and slash his arms and legs to pieces. He's yelling and crying without any sound and he doesn't care about possible contamination, he barely even knows where he is. It’s silent, but his mind _couldn’t possibly_ be any louder.

He wakes up strapped to a bed and at first he's struck with fear that he's been captured for experimentation, that HYDRA or _someone_ has taken him. But he catches Tony's face through the reinforced glass and he knows.

He makes a deal. SHEILD doesn't really give a fuck about what the doctor-monster hybrid does to himself. They never have. If it means keeping him in a secure location? Away from their enemies? Away from civilian casualties, and in their ranks as a weapon? Bruce could turn himself into a christmas ham. He's fine with that arrangement.

"Within reason, you can continue with these methods of coping- but we are going to have to make sure your emotional state is safe and secure with consistent check ups- you're a volatile danger Mr. Banner. There is a list of conditions i have outlined here-"

-He's told to go to therapy. It's once a week, and there is a specific, limited set of circumstances that would allow him to avoid it. Brilliant. Fury states that someone qualified has to consistently check his wounds, and Bruce makes sure he can see the hatred in his eyes. This was supposed to be his thing, but he has no choice, and after a minute of silence, he suggests Clint to be that person.

-If he has an attempt, they'll put him in isolation for his own safety for however long is deemed necessary. Bruce stares at Fury and shrugs, they both know that it's not really for his own safety. But neither say anything.

-If he's feeling suicidal, he has to let someone know, and it's bizarre. Because when isn't he? He doesn't even lie to Fury about that one, who raises his eyebrows, but doesn't comment. His death isn't a concern. Not really. It's what happens after.

They offer him medication, too. Or, not really offer. It's on the condition that Bruce is only allowed to be an avenger whilst on meds. He almost laughs, he knows it's this or he's locked up for experimentation. Or on the run. He's all the more resentful for it, but he accepts. Barely. He's pretty sure Fury can tell that he doesn't ever plan on taking the proposed antipsychotics, that the drains are going to be clogged with little pink pills, but neither of them care.

If Bruce wallows in self harm, researching in despair in his lab, treating the avenger's wounds and pointing them away from self destructiveness, they don't really point out the bright hypocrisy. And when they do, Bruce smiles- their health, they matter. The Hulks's abilities matter.

Bruce-the-doctor doesn't need to be in peak physical condition to analyse a few waves of radiation, to put his input into consultations about genetics and the developing existence of mutations or some other new bullshit.

In reality. Bruce isnt needed. And it's a truth that fuels his itch every _second_ of _every day_.


	3. Clint Barton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one-shot is from the perspective of Clint during a manic episode :)
> 
> i wrote this (most of the descriptions of feelings - i did however edit the context later) during a antidepressant overdose-induced manic episode, in which i was very very sick, hadn’t slept for days, and was confined to a hospital bed, so it’s not the most realistically built up- the way mania happens naturally, (for me), but it is based on what i was feeling at the time! also phil/clint is a thing here.

TW // mania, self harm, disordered eating, bipolar disorder. Trauma responses. 

—

He ran out of the medication sometime in between his last mission. A fast-paced manhunt for a SHEILD technician that had defected and had been selling information to outside parties. It was supposed to be quick, but they hadn’t foreseen him fleeing internationally _twice,_ so. 

He didn’t have time to refill something as minuscule as a prescription. Didn’t need to. The resulting nausea barely effects him, he’s dealt with much, _much_ worse. Maybe he never even needed the lithium, he doesn’t feel any different. It’s fine. It’s _fine._ He stops puking his guts up after the first 4 days, obviously, he is _fine now._

When he returns, he’s not sure why he starts chronically avoiding Phil. He’s always been erratic, shifts between intimately joining the avengers on movie night or not speaking to anyone for weeks. But it’s different with Phil.

Phil would be able to _tell_ , tell that something is wrong. _Is_ something wrong? No. He just doesn’t want Phil pestering him. He’s _fine. Everything is fine._

(It doesn’t take long for it to happen)

When Phil confronts him, with his effortlessly calm demeanour and anxiety poorly hidden in his brows, Clint snaps with bitter humour. 

“what is it, Phil? you upset at the lack of sex? is that it, you wanna fuck me Phil? am i not giving you enough attention?” He closes the gap between them with jarring movement, and the concern in Phil’s features becomes infinitely more pronounced. 

Its an oversight on Clint’s part, because his partner _knows_ how it starts, knows the shift. Clint has always, _always_ had humour as the default response. And his jokes have never been _appropriate,_ but this is different. And Phil has seen it before. 

If Phil didn’t know better, he would ask. Ask Clint to see the psychiatrist, ask him if he’s been taking his meds. And if they were in another situation, he would open his thoughts and his concerns to Clint without hesitation. But this is not the time. 

He bites his tongue.

”Clint, i’m just worried. I want you to be okay, i don’t want you to isolate yourself like this-“

Clint’s chest is aching, and something like regret is in the back of his throat.

“yeah. yeah Phil it’s okay. I’m okay. Just stressed”

His smile is _just_ sad enough, apologetic enough, to be realistic. And Phil wants to believe him. But he doesn’t. 

—

It’s been 2 weeks since Clint ran out of meds, and he’s so consumed with, with _jitteriness_ and some kind of feeling- a horrible horrible feeling. He’s so on edge, everything is so. It’s so, _wrong._

His mind is racing, jumbled words and conversations that occasionally spill out of his brain and through his mouth. He doesn't think it's because of the lack of meds. He can't admit he needs them. He _can’t_ -

But his memory is slipping away from him, and he has to do things today but he isn't sure what day it is or even what it is he must do- and this intense agitation isn't leaving him and so he needs to do something. Surely it will go away if he does something.

He's fine, anyway. It's just so warm in his room and he can't concentrate and it's so _fucking_ hot-

He knows what's happening. That is to say he knows he is falling apart, bursting rapidly at the seams, he is every cliche, every media portrayal of what _crazy_ is, and something more.

He knows he is a nervous wreck. He always has been. But it's supposed to be clear, controlled and this is a morning fog that won't leave him. He can look in the mirror and see it coming- he’s breaking, the mirror is breaking- _here-_

There is some kind of certainty that hits him in the head, as he's sitting in the shards. The mirror is broken, he is broken.

He can do whatever he fucking wants, of course he can, he is breaking apart, he has broken apart. The shards of his soul are being ground into a fine dust, the breaking of his bones and his psyche is synonymous, he’s dying, _he’s dying he’s dying._

but wouldn't it, wouldn’t it be so nice to just give in? He's so tired but he can't sleep and so he doesn't try- what’s the point? it’s like he’s dreaming, dreaming _right_ now and there will never be the possibility of him waking up because he’s _not._

Maybe he _is_ dreaming, oh _god_ , _oh god,_ he’s going to wake up in the circus again. He _can’t he can’t._

Maybe he’s going to be in some alley- being fucked raw, bleeding out, kneeling on bile. Maybe this is his body’s last hurrah- maybe he isn’t dreaming and this is just the deluded psychosis of a man inches from death. Seconds dragging into years.

His head feels like the aftermath of an assassination, all bloody sinews and somber muttering as the police consider the scene. God, there's so much talking-

—

When Clint was younger, death seemed terribly, desperately romantic. And he knows he should know better by now, he deals out death everyday, in harsh poisons and sharp arrows. But it never really left him. This disregard for himself. His fascination with mortality. 

Oh god, he’s going to die.

No. He’s crying in the early darkness of the morning, hours later, still sat with glass cutting into his skin and sweat sticking to his shirt, no, _no, no._

Death barely seems like a reality, he’s decided, and he ponders this as he's shaking with energy. It doesn't even feel like he could die. And god knows he's tried to. Maybe, maybe- _maybe he’s not going to die._ Maybe he never will.

Maybe he could just, see what happens. Stop trying to survive and start living, living, _living_. His eyes are burning with non-existent tears and unease flitters around his stomach, he lifts a hand, and god he's so tired, and as he raises his hand, he's flayed to the bone. The energy crumples. He's so tired.

—

He doesn't awake to anyone, he's in his apartment and he's in the bathtub and he's dressed and his shower is still running-

It's funny, this isn't how he remembered giving in, to the lull, the terror, of sleep. He faintly wonders if anyone's seen the bloody remains of his mirror, back at his room in the tower- did that even happen?

He doesn't dry himself. He's grateful for this combative force against the heat, even if he's just still so _uncomfortably warm_ -

He crawls out of the bathtub and stares at his reflection. He spends a moment, hours, grinning in the mirror, and god, he's so clever. He's so fucking clever. And he doesn't remember why, but his body is aching with the memories of the last week and somehow he is glad. He surely did something brilliant.

Clint didn't eat on Tuesday or Wednesday or Thursday, and it's Friday but he feels fucking brilliant- brilliant. He, he doesn’t remember. But somehow he _knows._

How long can he go? How long can he endure the utter _ache_ of his ribs, the pain in his spine- he's not even close to breaking. This is what it feels like to live.

Besides. He feels so weightless. It would only slow him down. To put anything in his body. 

He- he also feels like he's about to explode, the gashes on his arms suddenly come into his vision- when did this happen? It doesn't matter.

_Phil,_ where is Phil? He’s not in their apartment, this isn’t _their_ apartment. Where is he again? He hasn’t been here for, for how long? 

He can hardly feel the pain anyway, of the gaps in his arms. He just needs the blood. He shouldn't be worried. He isn't worried. Although stitches are going to be difficult with his shaking hands.

It's important to be reminded of your mortality when you're feeling, feeling _so_ immortal.

—

He loses time again, it’s bleeding from him in black tendrils, and he suddenly finds himself walking the streets of New York with bare feet, and carrying bags upon bags of Christmas decorations. Christmas? Is it Christmas? Well.

He tries to focus on the euphoria in his veins and not on the fucking shadow that keeps stalking him.

God he loves Christmas. He does, he swears it. He _does he does, he’s not a liar-_

But he is, isn’t he. He is. That’s what he _does._ He’s missed so many overdue punishments. He used to be punished for it, for lying. Why has no one been punishing him? He’ll just do it himself.

No one around pays him any attention- as he’s walking on the pavement. And he's slightly annoyed at that. They're bustling about as if they don't even notice him. He's an important person, right? People should take notice of him. It doesn't matter if he's an covert assassin, he's an avenger, too. Why isn't anyone looking. They're liars too, he can tell. He can tell they can all see him.

The lack of _their_ eyes only highlights the weight of, of that little shadow's eyes, unmoving from the back of his head. It’s following him.

—

He can feel that something is wrong. Something is _wrong. Where is Phil?_

Constant echos of conversations leak into his words. He's mumbling about how angry he is and then suddenly he's not, and he's counting very loudly to 87. There are people talking in the back of his head, and, and taking out his hearing aids _doesn’t help._

He almost wants a car to hit him, just to see what would happen. It would be funny, actually, it would be pretty fucking hilarious. Clint Barton, super spy, hit by a car. 

He needs to get out of here. He needs to do something, and he feels sick. He can’t, he can’t stay here. There are so many people. When did he become so fragile? 

He doesn't go back to his apartment, but that's where he was earlier, right?

Someone's got to appreciate how productive he's being, so he's heading to Stark Tower and no, he doesn't have his key card on him, but Jarvis (or is it FRIDAY, now?) recognises him and the guards are vaguely taken aback. This, _man,_ can’t be allowed in. Surely. 

—

Natasha looks at him with dark worry as he stumbles out of the elevator- bags full of items. Her face is determined and Clint is hit with a wave of fear. Or exhaustion- he isn't certain which. She shakes her head and they might've had a conversation, but he doesn't remember. He remembers eating, though. There's a part of him disappointed at that.

Phil isn’t there. 

He passes out in their room, but the feeling isn't gone when he wakes up. What’s the time? His watch isn’t in his nightstand, maybe he misplaced it. 

It's good, he swears to himself, it’s _good_ that this feeling hasn’t gone, because now he has the energy to actually put the decorations up. What would the avengers do without him? Things would be so fucking dreary. He goes to get ready, almost trips into the door of the bathroom, maybe he should cut his hair?

Where’s the mirror? _Where is his fucking mirror?_

Come to think of it, his room is oddly devoid of possessions. He’s stumbling around in the bathroom and he can’t find his razors, he can’t even find any plastic. Are they trying to _manipulate_ him? Someone’s robbed him, they’ve robbed him and Phil. How _dare_ they.

Oh god, oh _god. The shadow. What if it’s taken Phil—_

No. No it’s fine, it’s fine. Phil’s fine. He’s- maybe he won’t decorate anything. He can’t find the bags. 

It feels, everything feels, so, almost _psychedelic._ And for a moment, he wonders if he’s been drugged. No. He would notice that, he’s not _stupid._

But _something_ is wrong. 

— 

Clint spends the rest of the night on the roof of the tower, and as he stares into the city, buzzing with excitement, or maybe trepidation- his foot dangles off of the edge.

He chokes a laugh at the absurdity of it. He's fine. He pretends that this happy feeling isn't compelling him to jump off into the light of the city. Maybe it’s not quite a happy feeling.

—

It's three days later and he hasn't slept. Hasn’t eaten, either.

He saw Phil, he tried, he _tried_ to talk to him but his throat _can’t_ make sound and he only has the energy to stare at the window and to try to ignore the shadows in the room.

It didn’t look like Phil, it didn’t sound like him either. But his vision is blurred and he doesn’t know where his hearing aids are. Sign language doesn’t work when one party can neither see clearly nor actually lift their arms.

—

He left, at some point, after hours of sitting next to his partner. Phil knows better than to touch Clint when he’s like this. He’s scared. They need to do something, are planning to do something, but it doesn’t make it any less frightening to see the energy in Clint’s eyes. 

—

The agitation hasn't left him, and he's worried. He only feels like this, so vigilant and wired, when something is about to go wrong. Something must be about to go wrong. Right? It’s a truth he’s been ignoring. He can’t keep ignoring it, he _can’t._ He has to do something. 

He gets up.

He makes himself some coffee, sits at Stark's horribly white breakfast table and imagines mushrooms growing through his hands and his skin. He can almost taste the dirt.

Where- where is Phil? That man, the one that came into his room. Oh god, _he’s fucking taken him. The shadow man._

His heart leaps, it hurts. It _hurts. No._

Natasha is there, and he’s expressing his terror in barely constrained sentences. He doesn’t know when she entered the kitchen, maybe she was already there. 

(He doesn’t notice Bruce stood in the doorway)

She seems to emulate his own worry and he's so glad. It’s loud, when did he put his hearing aids in? Oh god he’s so glad she’s worried, that she will help, he needs to go, they need to go, they need to _do something._

—

He tries to leave, it's dangerous, Phil is in danger. He is, _he is._ Natasha is offering to call Phil for him, and Clint’s heart sinks to his stomach. Doesn’t she understand? 

Someone must be imitating him, Natasha is lying to him. He’s _not fine_ , he's being tricked- _that fucking shadow-_

—

He goes to leave. It’s a trap. It’s a trap _its a trap._

Natasha and Steve restrain him, and he knows they're trying to keep him from figuring out the truth. The betrayal he feels is burning behind his eyes and he's being flayed alive again- did he know this was going to happen? _He must have known_ -

He should have done something. It’s crumbling, it’s shattering, something is breaking, _the mirror is breaking._ He can feel the pieces of his ribs lodging into his lungs- 

—

He is angry. Oh he’s so angry and desperate and they ask when he last slept, and he tries to say that he _doesn't need to_ but the noises coming out of his mouth don't sound like words. They're incoherent numbers and idle conversations and the dialogue from his favourite tv show and him all blended together. They think he’s stupid, why is he being so _stupid. He’s not crazy._

How dare they treat him like this? He isn't a child. He isn't a fucking child. He isn't a child! Not anymore! He's not there anymore- _he isn't-_

Bruce tries to find a space on his arm to stick the needle into and Clint almost grins, actually, he sobs with silent, hiccuping laughter. God this is so _sad_ that it’s funny.

His skin is so bloody Bruce has to stick the tranquilliser into his thigh. Which is slightly more dangerous, and Bruce knows it. Triggering a trauma episode is the last thing he wants to do. And he’s all too aware of the people that have violated Clint’s body. All too aware of the stoic and controlled man behind him, already breaking at seeing his partner in so much pain. He will not be the reason Phil Coulson breaks. He will not hurt Clint any more than he has already been. 

Clint can see the man that looks like Phil- he’s watching from behind Bruce, and Clint desperately wants to cry. He’s _right there. Why don’t they believe him?_ He’s trying to choke the words out and he can feel the pity radiating off of them. 

Clint doesn't remember hurting himself, doesn’t have an explanation for the blood on his body, but he isn't really surprised. His feet hurt, his coffee is gone, there are shards of something on the floor. 

There is a pain in his thigh. He falls into someone’s arms. 

—

Clint wakes up, and his arms are bandaged and his wrists are in handcuffs.

Natasha is next to him, but the feeling isn't gone and the person in the corner looks all too familiar. _The shadow?_

They tell him that he's safe, but the man in the corner laughs. Its the shadow man, it's the shadow but he's solid and real and here- and he’s taunting him. 

He has Phil. Clint is begging for them to let him go, he is screaming that the man is right there. They don't listen to him.

The man glides over to Clint and he closes his eyes as the Shadow tries to rip out his veins. The SHEILD nurses are back and suddenly they're keeping his hands by his sides, and Clint doesn't understand, _it wasn't him! Why can't they see_!

They lie and lie and lie. He hates them.

“obviously, Mr Barton, you are not coping. right, okay. well, we’re going to put you on a temporary antipsychotic to alleviate your symptoms. im sorry Mr Barton, you are not in a position to make medical decisions. your partner has given consent.”

As _if_ Clint's fucking delusional. As if he needs medication. It's all the more confirmed, now, that their reassurances have been nothing but bold and bloody lies. It’s not fine, it’s never been fine.

He's not fucking crazy.

—

Clint wouldn't trust any of them in a better situation, much less this one. The man-that-looks-like-Phil tries to explain the risperidone will help, but Clint isn't even sure he wants to lose this feeling. How can he help people if he doesn't have as much energy? How can he help Phil? They must be lying to him. The shadow man is shouting now and Clint can't cover his ears because of the fucking handcuffs.

—

They keep him sedated for the first few days. The risperidone should be fast acting, but they don't want to risk anything- this is an avenger, not an average bipolar patient. God knows Clint would never ingest it willingly, not like this. Natasha has seen it before. So has Phil.

He remembers the first time he saw Clint. Meeting a desperate kid, in a bar full of angry men, and pretending to need his services. There was a crazed look in his eye and Phil _knew, knew_ that he was not going to survive. The kid didn’t even bother to hide the scars on his arms, his neck. He payed Clint to kill a man, and the next time they saw each-other, was in a dirty motel room, with Clint bleeding out on the carpet floor.

He made a promise to Clint that day. 

—

After two weeks on the medication Clint is drowning in a feeling worse than exhaustion. The reopened wounds on his arms are made for different reasons than their predecessors. And he's embarrassed. Oh he’s so embarrassed. He’s supposed to be better than this. 

_How_ can his teammates _ever_ trust him again. 

—

The shadow is gone. It’s gone and the feeling is less than a distant memory. He is angry, or maybe disappointed, that the energy just disappeared like that. But, rather comedically, he doesn't have the energy to express his anger in anything more than pointed silences.

He doesn't wish he felt that type of, of _energy_ again, but he hates this feeling too. He's just done, he's so fucking exhausted, he is drowning in despair and he wants it to be over.

The mania is always the worst, because as soon as it gets you high, it drops you without a parachute.

—

Phil is there, and he hasn’t left Clint’s side for weeks. Maybe he should be irritated, even upset, at that. But he is so, so relieved. And he cries into the arms of his lover and he’s _sorry._ They both are. 

It hurts, the guilt- that even now, he yearns for the apathy that suicide would bring, and he is certain Phil knows it. He is such a _burden._ When he's discharged from SHEILD medical, Phil doesn't leave his side even as he showers. The intimacy is uncomfortable, as much as it is relieving. He doesn’t want Phil to be his babysitter, he doesn’t want him to look at his scars and be disgusted the way he is with himself.

They didn’t usually talk about it, the fact they both know how dearly he wants to rip open his veins. 

But those conversations are increasing, when they’re blanketed with the safety of night and Clint is curled in Phil’s arms. Clint doesn’t know if he’s glad or not.

The eyes of the others don’t have the weight he thought they would. Tony grins and doesn’t even acknowledge anything has changed- and Clint has never felt more grateful. He isn’t being treated like a broken doll, and despite the reality of his shattered pieces, it helps him, sometimes, to pretend everything is okay. 

Natasha provides a quiet solidarity. When Phil _cant_ be there, she smoothly enters his place without hesitation.

He’s not embarrassed when he’s with her, he never has been. 

Natasha doesn't comment on it when Clint does find a way to release this tension. She cleans the blood and grabs the bandages and Clint just sits there in quiet certainty. 

Phil brings a level of empathy that Natasha has never had, and whilst it prickles his skin, it doesn’t do so in a bad way. He’s careful, even unnecessarily so, when Clint does end up shredding his body to bits. Maybe Clint doesn’t mind being treated with delicacy, sometimes. 

They've all seen each other in worse situations. 

—


	4. Ned Leeds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned dealing with an restrictive and b/p eating disorder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was thinking about how horrendously competitive eating disorders are and i just wanted to drive home the point that even if you haven’t been admitted to an inpatient unit, or had an ng tube- it’s still something incredibly valid and incredibly deadly. 
> 
> i think a lot of eds go unnoticed, especially if the victim is overweight/was overweight to begin with. And then when they are noticed- even though the victim may not be t h a t dangerously underweight yet- their disordered mindset is so sick because it’s been going on for so long, that it’s difficult to recover without intense, even invasive, help. 
> 
> i am so, so guilty to identify with Peter in this situation, and i know for certain that i inadvertently influenced my close friend badly by being so open. i hate that no one is helping her, that mental health services aren’t taking her seriously, because she started off being overweight and is now ‘only’ on the lower end of healthy. it’s awful.

TW: anorexia, bulimia, and major character death.

—

Ned doesn't know when it started, but he's here. He is here, fondling his collar bones with burning eyes and shallow breaths. Oh God.

Ned is certain. Horrifically, awfully certain that nothing will ever get better.

He _does_ he want it to be better. But the voice in his head is loud and he's barely, _barely_ a whisper in comparison.

He wishes he were mad about that. But sometimes, or often, it's difficult to determine the difference between himself and that voice in his head. What it is _he_ wants. If it's him talking, or thinking, and not the echoes of old classmates or disgusted friends.

_You fat pig, get out of my way._

_Oh you're going to eat all that?_

—

Sometimes he wonders, as he's sat on the roof of some decaying and gray fucking building, if it's fitting this is happening to him. Peter and MJ are by his side and neither of them contradict him. The concern they hastily choked out at the start of his descent has long been forgotten. They're the same as him. And they know it.

—

It's surprisingly easy to turn comfort eating into comfort starving.

—

The start had been slow. He remembers building up to sticking his fingers down his throat like it was some grand presentation. The first time he did it, he sat in the shower and let it melt away his relief. _Finally_ he didn't feel so guilty.

He marked down that day in his calendar.

The lightheaded feeling that stuck to him became like a _blanket_ of victory. A constant reminder of what he is working for.

It was easy to avoid food at school, and then, at home. Sleep in late to avoid breakfast, simply don’t eat lunch, and then hide dinner. It became routine, and Ned's always loved routine.

—

His thoughts start becoming less about the newest video game, or what Peter and him were going to do that weekend. On maintaining their Thursday movie nights.

Peter hadn't gone to the last several anyway.

—

His focus was, utterly and completely, on food. How little he could eat that day, or the next day- how many minutes of exercise would it take to burn off that apple he had just eaten- 

Peter was _deep_ into his own eating... issues, when Ned first started developing calluses on his knuckles.

_It's a disorder, Ned. A mental disorder, i don't know if i can get better._

Peter had often expressed guilt, because _what if it's my fault, Ned? i've made you like me._ And Ned has never known how to reply.

How does he tell Peter, that _yes_ \- _i_ _just wanted to be like you. I wanted it all._

—

Ned remembers the nights he spent accompanying Peter by the toilet bowel. Peter's a little thinner than him now. Always had been, really.

_Peter was always one step ahead, 1kg less, one grade above him._

Ned has a lot more to lose- more ribs to count. He'll be better than Peter. He'll be so much better that it'll make up for all the times he was so much worse.

 _He's so envious of him. He's so fucking envious of him_.

What he's not quite envious of, though, is the so called recovery Peter is constantly forced into.

Peter isn't allowed to stay at Ned's anymore. He needs constant supervision. There is a part of him that is _rife_ with jealousy about that.

_(not that Peter doesn't consistently escape the avengers’ eyes to run laps around New York in the dead of night)_

Peter isn’t immune to the competitive nature of his illness. And neither is Ned, they both share what they do on private stories and hasty texts. It’s like some sick game, though neither would ever admit it. 

He's even been restrained, a tube inserted to make sure his body doesn't feed off of his dying heart. Ned has never had that. Of course he hasn’t. 

—

Peter doesn't really spend a lot of time with him anymore. It's fine, though, because Ned doesn't really have any time to spend. His days are wasted, laying in his bed and letting the world think he's just lazy. And not so tired he can barely walk, so tired his brain feels like cotton wool.

—

A part of him is upset, he feels abandoned. Him and Peter were supposed to be doing this together. But Peter doesn't do a lot either, these days.

They don't talk about those nights anymore- the ones spent laying exhausted on public bathroom floors, soaked in tears and vodka and bile. They never really did, actually.

But he's also glad. He has this to himself now, despite how much he misses Peter, he is grateful for this. To be left alone to his misery.

—

Peter stopped coming to school a while ago. And their conversations on that dark little roof are usually forgotten in the haste of the shitty high calorie whiskey and weary eyes.

He remembers some of them, though. How incredulous he was at the notion that Peter actually enjoys this feeling of emptiness. The feeling that plagues Ned and has threatened to ruin his desired weight-loss more often than not. The feeling that induces binges and has Ned sobbing on his bathroom floor, crying at his inability to rid himself of the calories. 

So, this gifts Peter another thing, that Ned does not possess- _control_.

God, Ned's so _envious_ of Peter, it burns in his lungs along with the smoke of the nicotine. He doesn't really want to get better, not when it comes down to it, but he wishes someone cared enough to argue with him about it. To suggest recovery as though it was a _real_ possibility. Peter has the help of superheroes, he _is_ a superhero.

Ned is mundane, ordinary. He wants to be something _more._ If that means being sick, so be it.

—

He doesn't know how Peter can be so fucking perfect. How he aces through the utter ravenous feelings in his stomach like they don't exist. Whether Ned is starving himself or binging, it doesn't go away. Smoking helps, or helped, but only barely. He needs the smoke to stop the pains from consuming his entire being, but it doesn't stop them from being agonising.

He's so fucking hungry. And the purging he once relied on has slowly become obsolete- his throat torn and used to the scraping of his fingers. Often, he can't eat to rid himself of the hunger anymore. He has to endure the emptiness. And, often, he _can’t._

He is the _worst_ kind of person, how can someone like him even _hope_ to have an eating disorder- to have anorexia. How disgusting. How can he even _live_ with himself- he’s eating so often he’s never going to be _anything_ but a whale. 

One moment, he’s crying over being offered potato’s for dinner, and the next- he’s eaten half of his sister’s birthday cake. _Fuck._

_He hates it. Himself, the hunger, Peter, all of it._

And at this point, drinking water to subside the hunger isn't an option. He's not even sure why he's started avoiding water. Maybe it just makes him feel good to deny himself of something so paramount. But all he knows is the feeling of weight in his stomach doesn't cease for anything, not even 0 calorie water.

A greater level of control. The ultimate testament to his repentance. This restriction of water could be a lot of things. Ned doesn't have the energy to dwell on it.

—

Every-time Ned catches a glimpse at his body he is hit with a deep sense of sickening. _Why isn't he thin enough yet?_ The mirror, initially, it makes him _look_ thin. So _so_ thin. He compares pictures of himself- from before he developed this control ( _control?_ ) and now. And he can see the changes, it fills him with such happiness he can hardly breathe.

But everytime he looks down at his body, his _thighs_. He knows he's huge. His stomach aches and he can't tell if it's begging for food or crying in pain, it's permanently sucked in- and it hurts to relax it. He just wants to be able to relax without the fear of everyone seeing his huge fucking gut. His ribs aren't visible enough yet. He wants to be able to grab his collarbones and rip them out if he wanted to.

It hurts to move, now. His spine is bruised and he isn't sure if it's because of the sit ups, or the schools’ cheap chairs, but he doesn't really care. The pain feels like victory, sometimes.

—

His mum eventually comments on his spine- the way it sticks out of his shirt, and she's worried. His hidden grin morphs into unbridled terror as she suggests they go to the doctor.

But there is a part of him glad, because _finally_ people are noticing. And that means it's working.

—

The doctor throws lie upon lie onto him. He tells Ned that he's _underweight_ , but, it’s fairly normal for someone his age, his height. 

The bile that rises into his throat doesn't fill him with satisfaction the way it usually would. This isn’t what he wanted. It’s like some terrible middle ground- _yes_ you’re underweight, _but, no one cares._

So, he assures Ned that being underweight is a common issue of puberty with teen boys. He’s not _horrendously_ underweight, only a couple kilograms. Reassures his mum that it’s nothing to worry about- and Ned seizes his opportunity, as invalidated as it makes him feel, to continue the way he is.

But his mum points out the weight he’s lost, asks if it’s normal, and the doctor furrows his brow-

_Oh, well, that’s a lot. I apologise- i didn’t see his previous weight in his records. Maybe there’s a digestive problem, here. Have you felt nauseous, recently?_

He suggests running some tests for a bowel problem, or a digestive problem, asks some standard eating disorder questions that Ned _easily_ dodges. And then it’s over, and Ned, somehow, is disappointed. _Fine._

—

His mother takes things _slightly_ more seriously.

Being forced into recovery is no solution. Not to Ned. It is a delay of the inevitable. So why is he upset about being left to himself?

He just wants to be fucking thin. Thin enough to be noticed. He just needs to lose another 10 pounds and then he'll stop. He will finally be fucking perfect.

It's harder, now that his mother watches him at the dinner table- he can't hide his intentions. But, they aren't nearly as strict as they should be. 

And Ned capitalises off of this. They aren't really aware of how far gone he is. His throat aches, but it's a nice feeling. Fuck them. He isn't going to let them fatten him up. He's had to try every trick in the book to get the purging to work again, to hide the food and perform hidden exercises. But it's working. His mother is believing the lies, the- _maybe it is something physical, ma, meat especially makes me feel so nauseous._

—

Ned doesn't even _care_ anymore. He wants to be so thin he can barely breathe. Wants doctors to be _so_ worried they won’t let him leave hospital.

—

The feeling of food in his stomach overwhelms him with self-hatred, at this point, that even a cracker makes him ache with guilt. It doesn’t stop him from devouring the cupboards, and sometimes his stomach aches so much afterwards he’s _sure_ he is dying.

He'd do anything to avoid being reminded of how fucking huge he is, apparently, except for stop eating altogether. 

It's like he's swallowed an anchor. It's so, so horribly debilitating. This feeling of fullness. Ned finds that he misses that empty feeling. Desperately claws for it. 

_He finally understands_.

—

Ned reaches his goal. He doesn't feel thin enough, not at all, but at least he can finally _say_ he's thin. He can feel his collarbones sticking put through his paper-thin skin and he shivers with happiness. Just a little bit more and he can stop.

The doctors are paying more attention, they’re worrying, his mother is worrying. They say they think he has an eating disorder, he might need more ‘specialised’ help, it’s a medical emergency, and Ned almost bursts out laughing.

_Oh? really?_

He will let this kill him.

—

_It does kill him._

They find him crouched over in the bathroom, the pale sickliness of his skin is shining in the light. His stomach is distended- his limbs are barely more than bones.

Raw fingers and bruised wrists shine against the pristine white of the toilet bowl as his body is shook with the desperate pleas of a grieving mother.

There is the smell of bile and guilt in the air


	5. Peter Parker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a short one shot about Peter’s lead up to suicide. this is endgame compliant- so it’s set in a completely different setting compared to the previous ones. 
> 
> TW for ed behaviours, self harm allusions, and eventual major character suicide.

Peter likes to think of himself as an artist, sometimes. 

His entire body is his canvas, he is a beautiful pattern of shiny white lines. He mixes bile and blood on his pristinely mocking bathroom floor and calls it a masterpiece.

_Art comes from pain, right?_

He has that in bucketfuls, enough to fill a thousand toilet bowels and to soak ten thousand bandages.

There is a force that pulls at his soul, of pure, _unbridled_ emptiness. He relishes in it. It's his motivation. He _is_ the blank, empty canvas. He works tirelessly to keep it that way. The calluses on his knuckles and the scars on his body are his participation trophies.

He will _utterly_ destroy himself if it means avoiding hurting. The pain that comes with the sobs that soak his bedsheets is an ocean compared to the droplets of hurt that he feels as the blood flows from his body.

—

Its the sorrow. The guilt. He tries so hard to avoid this pain and replace it with others, but it always comes back.

It overwhelms him. He sits on the roof of the old avengers tower and just cries.

This isn't _art_.

At some point his blood and tears mix together. He lets the salt of his tears sting his wounds.

He can't see the iron man murals from up there. But he knows they're there all the same.

He hates them. Steve, Natasha, Tony. He _fucking_ hates them. He is sobbing and hurting and they are _dead_ and gone. He hates that he misses them. He hates he barely got to say goodbye. He hates that he isn't dead too. That he can't do that now. They left him with their burdens. He was barely an avenger to begin with. And he certainly isn't now. Despite what the world, what Happy or what what’s left of the avengers expects of him.

He's pathetic. And he isn't fooling anyone.

The people he tries to stop jumping from bridges hear it in his voice- know that one particularly hard grab on the forearm and the red on his costume won't be dye. He can tell- they see his unsteady sways as malnutrition wages war on his body.

He knows, too, that he isn't really helping them. He is delaying the inevitable and he hates himself for it.

Peter is certain everyone can see how broken Spider-man is. But that's just a mask, and no one is there to help Peter Parker.

—

His life is falling apart around him. He used to find it vaguely funny, the way his Parker luck destroyed every single good thing in his life. Some sick entertainment- God's joke.

But it is intense sadness that has destroyed any amusement that Peter has ever felt.

He remembers Ned, the day when he finally addressed the elephant in the room. Over text- a voice note, of course. Ned was never one for confrontation. It's why the past few months had been destroying their relationship. Peter had become the epitome of confrontational.

"I can't do this anymore, Peter, i think it'd be healthier if we stopped being... you know- uh- friends. i'm sorry. i really hope you get help but i can't- i can't do this"

It hadn't been a surprise. Not really. He can't expect Ned to put up with his episodes of despair and rage- but it _destroyed_ him all the same.

Ned was a constant in his life. Even through the arguments they had been recently having more frequently- and least he was there. And then, he wasn't.

It had been the same day May had cracked. And a week since his suicide attempt.

He had tried, desperately _desperately_ tried to explain the hold his memories had over him. How he just can't stop remembering- Tony's dying moments, his own dying moments. Every second of every day is a reminder of his failings.

"it's- it's all in the past, peter! Thanos isn't here! no one else is responsible for your actions but you. you chose to take that overdose, nobody else."

He had truly, utterly believed May understood- that she would understand. She still mourned uncle Ben, she experienced the snap herself. Why didn't she understand?

It was supposed to be him and her. They were supposed to be together, supporting each other. It was them against the world, until it _fucking_ wasn't.

MJ, she was never really that involved to begin with. She never left, though. And sometimes they cry together in public bathrooms and drink disgusting whiskey and Peter feels the closest emotion possible to happiness.

It was 2 days after her body had been found that Peter was told, along with the rest of their school. A suicide, they said- she overdosed and lacerated a major artery. Peter didn't cry, but heads turned as he walked out of the assembly hall and left the school grounds in a haze of fucking sorrow.

Later that day, he spent hours staring at the walls of his bathroom and left his arms bare of blood.

 _Fuck_ art.

He takes one look at the razor and throws up the remnants of the apple he had 2 days ago.

—

He is alone. Peter is alone and he can't tell what's real and what is not. He lays in bed and he's staring at the ceiling and he doesn't understand. He doesn't fucking understand.

—

Peter hasn't gone to school in weeks. Not since that day. And he knows he's falling behind, and by _god_ does he hate himself for it. But there is not a single cell of his body that wants to do this anymore, to move out of bed, to _live_. And he knows deep in his bones that he is done. He is so completely and utterly done.

He knows that May's shouts are born of concern, but she is blissfully ignorant. School is the least of his worries- especially considering he won't be alive to graduate.

—

There are people that drown in denial in the face of tragedy. And the knowledge that May is one of those people is crushing his lungs with its weight. It solidifies his belief. He is alone. And there is not a soul that exists willing, nor able, to help him climb out of this hole.

If she doesn’t acknowledge his descent into despair, it doesn’t exist, right?

He knows what has to happen. There is no way he can continue like this. He knows he is selfish, but there isn't really anyone left to be selfless for anyway. And he knows May will be better off without him, regardless of how she initially feels about his death.

Although he knows, and is even comfortable with his fate, it doesn't stop the fear. He can't do something as petty as an overdose again. It _has_ to work.

He does not feel calm in the face of death.

He is terrified.

—

It's 6 weeks since MJs death, and Peter is sat in his usual place, atop the old avengers tower, when he _realises_.

He doesn't think slicing his arteries open would be affective, and he knows no drug is powerful enough to kill him. Not one he can get his hands on. What would kill anyone, though. Is a fall from this height.

It's the first time he's felt a hint of amusement in a long time. It's a fitting way to go. A shitty martyrdom- a physical manifestation of the avengers' fall. _God’s shitty joke._

Peter isn't stupid, though, and the fear is stronger now. He is really doing this. There is no other option. Bile rises out of his throat, and for once he doesn't feel physically, or mentally relieved at the bitter taste. He just feels wrong.

May might miss him. Maybe people will mourn him, maybe Nick Fury will let out a particularly regretful sigh in his honour.

Pepper. He hasn’t spoken to her since it happened- knows that she rightfully blames him for Tony’s death. But he likes to think she could mourn him.

Maybe what’s left of the avengers will remember him.

—

Ah, but it’s not enough. It’s never going to be enough.

He's fully aware of the primal responses of his nervous system as he falls. He will experience intense feelings of self preservation. He will spend his last moments dredged in regret.

But there is no alternative. Perhaps there's an afterlife. He lets himself be hopeful before he steps off the edge.

Peter Parker watches the lights of New York swirl as he falls to the ground- suit and webbing long left behind on the top of the building that contains the remains of his happiest memories


End file.
